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+------ Thread: ｢ IN YOUR BONES / P. CEL ｣ (/showthread.php?tid=17872)
｢ IN YOUR BONES / P. CEL ｣ - TYDEUS - 11-04-2018
[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: helvetica; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 1.4;"]/ this is aimless and i guess they're gonna have to meet at a strip club thanks muse
Humanity talked about the end of the world like they hadn't seen it coming for thousands of years. A wolf swallowing the sun, the world being bathed in fire. Apocalyptic ends to a universe that meant so little. Tydeus doesn't believe in god, no matter what he sees in the world around him. They claim all sorts of things and he's paid them no mind. At the end of the day, he doesn't believe that any all-knowing entity would take any interest in the lives of these ants. There are planets and stars and supernovas. Far prettier things to look at than this.
He leans against the wall and flicks through the newspaper, reads about explosions and leveled cities. Then something about the Yankees. Something about a celebrity's dog. The world is ending and nobody gets it  nobody's screaming. Everyone goes about their lives, goes to work, pets dogs, hugs their friends, went dancing. He can hear the bass pulsing from a nearby club, the noise spilling out and echoing on concrete streets. Dull, dirty white and red light, dark shadows moving to the beat. He watches with an empty curiosity from across the street, unable to get his bod to move with theirs. It's been a long time since he moved with any sort of freedom. Tydeus has scars across his body. Short, thick white lines and thin, fading slices. The bruises are healed and he has nothing else reminding him of his past.
But the world is ending and he suppose he can suppress the empty longing he has for something more. Something different. Freedom isn't everything he's imagined it to be, and although he gets plenty of nice attention with soft strawberry hair and big brown eyes, none of it's right. He's sick to think that. He's wrong. But he misses the security of his former life, the knowledge that he had a place somewhere in particular. Even if it hinged on his behavior, it was home, for whatever that was worth. The monsters he'd been surrounded by were nothing short of feral. Blood-soaked, finding their fun in all things immoral.
There was hardly a day that didn't end in bloodshed, but it was a part of town that cops didn't frequent. Everyone turned a blind eye  now hadn't he heard that story somewhere before?
The young man pushes off the wall and places the newspaper neatly on top of the trash can (which is nearly overflowing at this point, that's gross) before walking across the street. Into the hazy light, where he ducks his head. This section of town is familiar; he knows that people won't question the scent of saltwater clinging to his skin when he sits down at the bar. It's drowned out by alcohol soon enough, and the crowding pressure of someone against his back and hot breath against his neck. "The answer's no," he intones blandly over the thumping music. It's moments like this that he misses Bones.